


The Magisterial Affair

by midnightprelude



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Book: Swords and Shields - Varric Tethras, M/M, Varric Tethras Writes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:35:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27534610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightprelude/pseuds/midnightprelude
Summary: Dorian might enjoy Varric's novels more than he cares to admit.
Relationships: Dorian Pavus/Varric Tethras
Comments: 6
Kudos: 16
Collections: A Paragon of Their Kind Dragon Age Dwarf Exchange





	The Magisterial Affair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Viscariafields](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Viscariafields/gifts).



A lengthy ride through the Frostback Mountains capped off an even lengthier trek through the eerily still forests of the Emerald Graves. Dorian was exhausted and weary to his bones as he relaxed in a steaming bath, breathing in the scent of rosehips and oakmoss that wafted up from the steam. He closed his eyes, rolling his neck, but his mind was still humming, reeling from the time they’d spent in that haunted Chateau, tucked away from the rest of the world.

Trying to keep a young mage safe, her parents condemned her to demonic possession. Tried to change her nature until it warped her completely, leaving only a shadow of the girl they’d loved behind.

They could have accepted her as she _was_ and the child would still be- Probably trapped in a mage prison somewhere in Orlais. But at least she’d be _alive_.

Fear. _Fear_ had killed her. How many other young people were bound to the same fate because the Southerners would rather live in terror of magic that could be understood, channeled, put to good use?

Dorian shuddered, slipping further into the water.

He needed a distraction, something to calm the swelling tide of anxiety that their trip had inevitably undammed. Dorian quirked an eye open, drying his hands with a flash of elemental, looking around his conjured bath for something light. Something ridiculous. Something that would soothe his aching soul, if only for a few scant hours.

There, on the table, was that dreadful periodical Seeker Pentaghast had practically shoved into his hands. Maker knows _why_ she thought he’d be interested in a romance serial. Particularly one written by Tethras. Particularly one that was _clearly_ based upon his former acquaintances, if the _Tale of the Champion_ was any indication. A book which Dorian had read primarily because of its political relevance on the ship from Minrathous. Not for any other reason, certainly.

Dorian sighed, Force magic sending the book careening across the room and into his hands. _Swords and Shields_. Ridiculous. The cover was emblazoned with a red-headed knight, proudly facing the reader, her locks flowing in an invisible breeze. Dorian sighed again, shaking his head, and cracked open the book, wiggling his toes in the steaming water.

He was fully wrinkled when he finally emerged from the tub, five hours and two bottles of wine later, if his enchanted timepiece was any indication. He’d reheated the water three–no, four–times as he thumbed through the pages in a fury.

Bloody good distraction indeed.

The plot was ridiculous. Why on earth would bandits be following the Champion of Kirkwall and her heavily armed compatriots around Lowtown at all hours of the night? Why would the city guards ever suspect the tightly laced Knight-Captain Aline of being the mastermind behind the recruit disappearances? She didn’t have a bloody deceptive bone in her entire body.

He imagined the falsely accused Knight Captain in the dungeon, holding the note from Guardsman Dennis with the invitation to a dinner she’d never get to attend, slumping her head against the moss-covered walls, heaving her first sighs as a discredited and dishonored woman.

How dare Varric end on that cliffhanger? The Knight-Captain falsely accused and imprisoned for _corruption_? The woman had to be the most by the books person he’d ever heard of. And her Guardsman taking the stand against her? Had he no _shame_?

It was a travesty. A Blighted, absolute travesty. He wanted to throw the book across the room and against the wall when he realized he was on the final page.

How _dare_ he.

In a fit of pique, Dorian wrapped a fluffy white towel around his waist, luxuriating in the feel of clean cloth against his skin again, before drying himself off magically. Slipped into a simple robe, combed and dried his hair, curled the corners of his mustache.

And then he marched out of his chambers, off to find the Seeker for the next installment.

\--

Cassandra Pentaghast answered the quick rap on her door with a shout, bidding him to enter at his leisure. When he pulled open the heavy door, the woman was drenched head to toe in sweat, three careful piles of documents sitting on her ironwood desk, sconces lit throughout her chamber, armor, sword, and shield resplendent and polished atop her low dresser. A small bookshelf pulled double duty as a nightstand, upon which sat a teapot, a delightfully out-of-character floral saucer, and a slim book with a deliciously burly man illustrated picking up a slip of a woman. Plucked winter roses stood at attention in a clear vase near her windowsill. 

“I need the next installment,” Dorian said, tapping his foot on the floor.

She gazed at him curiously, then her eyes dropped to the book in his hands. “Oh. _Oh_.” A quiet little sigh, gentle puff of air. “Last one, I am afraid.”

“What do you _mean_ it’s the last one?” Dorian tried to keep his expression neutral as his fingers tightened around the leather-bound cover. “The Knight-Captain-“

“I _know_ ,” Cassandra grumbled with a familiar disgruntled groan, pulling herself up onto a bar she’d installed into her spartan chambers, holding herself aloft, and then dropping back to the ground, wiping her hands on her leggings. Always working at something, that one. “So. You read _Swords and Shields_.”

“Skimmed,” Dorian said, scrunching his nose. “I was drunk.”

“You liked it.” She elbowed him, harder than she probably realized. Dorian grunted. “You do not need to pretend to me.”

“I _like_ narrative completion. This simply cannot be the end to this story.”

“It’s the last Varric’s released in years.” Cassandra lifted a brow, smiling slightly. “You could always ask him about it.”

Dorian narrowed his eyes in her direction, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “How long, precisely, have you been trying to get someone to ask him to write a sequel for you?”

A flush rushed to Cassandra’s cheeks, visible even in the low candlelight. “I do not know what you are-“

“’You do not need to pretend to me,’” Dorian repeated, in his best Nevarran accent, a smirk curling his lips. “If you’re going to get me to do your dirty work, you should at least have the decency to admit to it.”

“You mean to ask him?” Cassandra’s eyes widened and for a moment she looked more like a giddy schoolgirl than a woman who could put him in a headlock and cut him off from the Fade with a flick of her wrist.

“…For you.”

“You cannot tell him that you are asking for _me_!” she exclaimed, looking suddenly panicked.

“I should tell him that _I’m_ asking for me?”

“Just so,” she nodded, nudging him out of her door. “Good luck, Enchanter Pavus.”

Dorian closed his eyes, massaging his temples.

\--

Dorian crossed his legs, nursing his bottle of the sad swill that passed for wine in Skyhold. The fire in the Herald’s Rest was crackling loudly, momentarily staving off the bitter cold that sought to sneak in through the cracks in the doors and windows. Maryden sang loudly, some obnoxious tripe about Sera who cackled from the balcony, dropping pebbles in patrons’ drinks.

“The problem with romance novels is-“ Dorian waved a hand in the air, rolling his eyes. “They always, _always_ focus on the feelings of women.”

He might be drunk. 

He might be _very_ drunk.

He’d spent nearly two hours chatting with the man, becoming ever more aware of the cut of his shirt with each glass of depressing wine. Stories about their journeys with the Inquisitor, various Senatorial shenanigans with their mutual friend Maevaris, Varric’s time following around the infamous Champion of Kirkwall.

And then, of course, he had to bring up the bloody book. Like a compulsion. A stupid, ill-advised, embarrassing compulsion.

“Is that so, Sparkler?” Varric pushed his glasses up on his nose, a low chuckle rumbling from his chest, making Dorian feel like his toes had filled with bourbon. “Didn’t take you for a fan of romance.”

“A fan. I _suppose_ you could call me a fan, but it’s almost impossible to truly lose myself in the stories because-“

“A lack of diversity?” Varric suggested, scribbling out a note on the parchment splayed out before him. “Noted.”

“I just think you’re missing out on a tremendously hungry market.” Dorian shrugged, feeling feverish. “It’s a business suggestion, nothing more.”

“Hmm,” Varric grinned. Why, why, _why_ was his shirt cut so low? And that bloody _necklace_. “Perhaps that’s why _Swords and Shields_ was a bust. Too similar to all of the other dime romances.”

“Oh, but you should still finish that one-“

“You know what?” Varric raised a brow, lifting his tankard of ale to his lips. “I just think I might. Got a few other ideas now, though. Going to let them ruminate for a while.” He tapped the feather of his pen on his forehead. “Night, Pavus.”

“You’re leav-“ Dorian nodded, stopping himself from protesting. It was so nice to have company. Most of Skyhold’s denizens thought he was sewn from the same cloth as the Venatori and stayed far away, giving him sideways glances over their mugs. “Sleep well.”

Varric chuckled low, sending a rush of heat across Dorian’s skin. Maybe it was just his back to the fire. The wine. Definitely the wine. Too much wine. “Oh,” Varric winked. He _didn’t_ , the devil. More wine-addled nonsense. “I’m certain I will.”

~~\--~~

His body ached from days of hard riding, this time returning from the detestable wasteland of Emprise du Leon. The whole place was crawling with Red Templars and, even worse, chock full of red lyrium which split his head and made him hum funny, half-remembered tunes. Revolting, the entire place.

 _Ferelden_ might’ve been preferable, honestly.

He walked slowly across the cold stones of his room, lighting a fire in his hearth with a flick of his wrist, drawing off his boots. Dorian narrowed his gaze.

There was a small, brown package on his bed, out of place against the burgundy quilts, piled high in an attempt to keep his feet warm during the awful winter evenings in Skyhold.

He began the lengthy process of unbuckling himself from his robes, examining the little thing curiously. No trace of magic, none that he could sense, anyway. He extended a single hand, untying the thin golden ribbon.

A leatherbound book, handwritten pages.

His breath caught when he opened the unlabeled cover.

 _The Magisterial Affair_.

There was an illustration of a handsome, mustachioed, dark haired man in a long, opulent robe bending at the waist to press his lips to a handsome red-headed dwarf, wearing a low-cut shirt and a very, very familiar necklace.

_Thought this would be more to your taste than S &S. Looking forward to your full review. _

_Always happy to dedicate a work to a fan._

_-V_

Cheeks flushing bright red, skin feverish, Dorian lamented that he hadn’t chosen that morning to don something with far, far fewer buckles.


End file.
